Watching
by sockindex
Summary: Second in my experimental Johnlock trilogy of smut: John didn't think Sherlock was the type, boy, was he wrong.


WARNINGS! John. Sherlock. Masturbation. Descriptive as usual.

When John gets home from working at the clinic- the first thing he notices is that Sherlock's door is shut. He's not sure if he's ever seen that happen, not once in the several months of living at 221b with his eccentric, sociopathic flatmate.

He finds it immediately fascinating. And briefly worries if that's the correct response for this situation. The second thought is that maybe Sherlock's personality is rubbing off on him.

John shakes his head and toes off his shoes at the door; he doesn't realize that he's never taken his shoes off at the door before- and that subconsciously, he's probably taking them off to make his footfalls quieter.

He walks towards Sherlock's room, his soldier brain actively avoiding the known creaks in the floorboards. His left hand reaches for the doorknob, his right presses gently against the wood- he turns his face towards the door and leans his ear against the flat surface.

The gasp that presses against his ear is soft, desperate, and immediately followed by a low, throaty moan. It's Sherlock's voice- and John has never heard anything so erotic.

John's left hand turns the doorknob, he tries to ignore the fact that his hands are shaking and that he can feel heat coiling down his spine from that one breathy moan. The door clicks silently- John holds his breath as he presses it forward until he can make out the form of his flatmate.

Sherlock is on his side, his back turned to the crack of the door where John stands- his blue dressing robe is on the floor in a crumpled mess a few feet from the bed, his plain grey tee-shirt discarded along side it. John's eyes travel along the pale expanse of Sherlock's back- the strong line of his shoulders, the way he's curved forward in such a way that the ridges of his spine are pressed against skin. His pyjama pants are resting low enough on his hips that John can see the perfect swell of his ass, just a small hint, above the waistband- Sherlock's breath is coming out in slow, soft, gasps.

John can hear his own breathing, it sounds loud and deafening against his ears, his heart beats quick and heavy against his chest. He knows that he should leave, should back out through the door- he's not entirely sure how he ended up in Sherlock's room, watching the roll of his shoulder and listening for the hitches in his breath, waiting for the hard pull and the gasped words he wants to hear fall from that mouth. He knows that he should leave before he's disappointed.

Sherlock moans and John has to bite down on his lower lip to stop his own gasp. Lines of fire stretch and race down to his cock and John's fingers curl around the hard outline- he can feel the heat of himself through his jeans, he presses his palm more firmly against the swell; his hips jerk in response, his other hand covers his mouth to stop the noise of his own breathing.

If John listens closely, he can hear the soft, slick, sound of Sherlock's hand stroking his cock- he can almost imagine it: Sherlock's long, slender fingers curled around the hot, hard, heavy flesh. The long slow pull, the twist of his wrist, the wet beads of precome gathered at the head of his cock- the slide of his thumb along the slitted tip, the sound of his breath, the jerk and roll of his hips.

John doesn't realize that his eyes are closed until he opens them and finds bright, lust-blown eyes watching him. His hands drop to his sides instantly, away from his mouth, away from the hard push of his cock against the fabric of his pants.

"Hello John." Sherlock says, there's a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He's pushed back against the pillows now, his knees are bent slightly and spread wide- bare feet pressed flat against the mattress. His cock is hard and fisted in his hand, he twists his wrist and jerks his hand- his back arches slightly, the curve is perfect. His head tilts back against the headboard, his pale throat stretched- John can see, with perfect clarity, the bob of his adams apple as Sherlock swallows and exhales slowly.

"Oh," Sherlock gasps, his eyes are cataloguing every single subtle motion of John, John can almost see the information connecting in Sherlock's mind, "Oh John." it's a breathless whisper- his fingers slide faster along his cock, his tongue dips out to wet his lips, and John's legs feel like they're going to give out underneath him.

"Come here."

John's steps are shaky as he crosses the room. He's one small space away from the bed when Sherlock's free hand reaches out, slender fingers clench around his shirt and pull- John ends up with one knee propped up on the mattress, Sherlock's mouth is against his.

The press of Sherlock's mouth is hot and wet and glorious. His tongue shoves into John's mouth, sliding along his teeth and twisting perfectly- John moans into his mouth and can feel Sherlock's smile against his lips. John's hand is wrapped around the bedpost, his other flat against Sherlock's chest- his fingers are splayed over Sherlock's heart, he can feel the swift, steady beat thumping against his palm.

Sherlock gasps into his mouth and pulls away from their kiss, his eyes are almost black with dilation, "Watch me." Sherlock says, the words make John's cock throb painfully against his pants- John's breath comes out in a shaky exhale, he leans his forehead down against Sherlock's shoulder and looks to where Sherlock's fingers are squeezed tightly around the base of his cock.

The long, slow strokes are just as John imagined. The precome, the swipe of Sherlock's thumb through the wetness, the perfect hitch of Sherlock's breath getting stuck in his throat. The quick push of cock through fisted fingers, the rise and fall of Sherlock's hips.

John's hand falls from the headboard and slides down his body, his fingers curl tightly around the hard swell of his cock through his pants. His hips jerk against the pressure of his palm- he can hear the whispered ohyes. ohJohn. yes. against his hair.

Sherlock's body arches, his toes curl into the sheets, his wrist twists and his fingers tighten around his cock- John watches, captivated, Sherlock's heart beats a rhythm against his palm, the pulse of his own cock matches the pace- the choked John that Sherlock groans as he comes pulls John to pieces and John's hand clenches around himself as he follows with a sigh of Sherlock's name.


End file.
